The Frog Prince
by deityb
Summary: Cursed by his own cruel heart, Prince Bonnefoy is cursed to become a frog in months unless he can find true love. Can a captured peasant that he hates provide his only hope? France/England, Storybook AU, PG-15 for later chapters, Human Names
1. Prelude

Eight years in the past, in a castle settled amongst mysterious woods, a young ruler was turning twenty-one years old. Prince François Bonne-Fois was a beautiful, charming man with a wicked, black heart. He was everything French, both good and bad. Though outwardly beautiful beyond imagining, he was a cruel, unloving, selfish boy on the inside. Without self-satisfaction, his face was known to grow dark, lined and ugly with the anger that filled him. However, this night was not an ugly night for François, who had the most extravagant party of his young life well underway.

It was a genius plan, for the greatest birth-day of his life (so far; next year would have to be better or he wouldn't be beautiful for that whole day). A grand masquerade had been set up, all the adoring masses with enough money, good looks, or both, were invited and present. All in fantastic masks and gorgeous costumes. The Prince had insisted on a theme for himself and his castle staff. All were to have costumes tailored like their favorite animal of choice (after approval by Bonne-Fois and the supervision of the makings of them. He wouldn't have any unsightly mistakes).

The Prince, himself, had always adored the looks of smooth, green, exotic frogs. Never a bumpy toad, but the green amphibians always attracted his eye. Naturally, his costume was tailored to this. His mask was basic in shape and size, revealing all of his face, save the barest stretch across his eyes (yet, if the storyteller may note, his bright, big, blue eyes were fully visible through the frames. It was, really, a lazy mask. Simply a way to showcase his looks rather than hide them).

His body was in the best gold and green, strung with expensive ornaments and priceless gems. The finest velvets and silks and pearls and gold. His golden hair was pulled back at the connection of skull and spine with a emerald ribbon, his hands were covered in almost-gaudy rings. If any man could look so beautiful in such cloth, it was François.

He waltzed amongst the guests, soaking in the stares and attention. Everything went perfect, everything was fine.

Until there was a knock upon the doors. A silence fell, servants nervously examining the Prince's face. They felt relief when he simply turned and marched towards the door, still smiling. Guests gathered at the hallway, curious. Who would ever dare be late to any of the Prince's parties, much less this one?

The offending tardy soul was an old crone, hunch-backed, wizened, toothless, dirty, and ugly. The Prince stared at her with an expression of disgust and sick amusement.

«What is is you want?» He asked her in the native tongue.

She took her time answering, looking over the Prince's intricate clothing with the eye that wasn't milky from blindness and lazy from misuse. When she did reply, the wispier of the women in the room shuddered, covering their assorted faces in gentleman's shoulders. Her voice was disgusting, gravely and abused.

«Can sir spare some food? Or perhaps a room. I am on my lonely way to Lyon, and I have gotten lost in the storm. Please, sir, I will pay as I can.»

She reached a knobbly, vein-crossed hand into her tattered robes, pulling out a simple silver mirror, with a golden fleur des lis embossed upon the backside.

François laughed, the hallway imitated him.

«It will take more than that, woman. Far more!» He tipped a wink at the crowd, who laughed again.

Unabashed, the crone reached into her sleeve and pulled out a dying rose.

«Will this do for sir?» She inquired. He laughed again, obscenely. Snorting and wheezing until he was doubled over on the door's frame. Rather nervously, the crowd tittered their chuckles and amusements.

«Will this do? Will this do!? Off my stairs, hag! You've already harmed my eyes for the evening. If I didn't fear catching your ugliness, I'd punish you in my dungeons for insulting me like this! A mirror and a rose? Why I've never-!»

His words were cut short with a crashing sound. A hellish crash that caused many screams. he didn't understand, until his guests were running past him, out the door, out of his house. François spun, to see that the ballroom chandelier had fallen. He turned as the last couple fled, eyes filling with terror as he looked to his servants, for they were the only ones who had remained.

He assumed that the hag had left, until a golden, blinding light filled the hallway, and his servants began collapsing with screams of pain, clutching their masks.

The Prince faced the woman again, only to find the most beautiful being he had ever seen floating in her place. Golden and white robes flowed about her, her hair tossed wildly in a nonexistant wind. Her eyes were the coldest green he had ever seen, though, and that scared Bonne-Fois so deeply that he fell to his knees.

In a resounding voice, in the language from across _la manche_, she spoke.

If he had not been raised as a prince to know this language, he would never have heard the curse that was put upon him.

"Francis Bonnefoy, prince of these woods and ruler of this estate, you have condemned yourself by your own hideous soul to a life of solitude. Your heart is ugly and dark; you have never known or given love. Those higher forces that I represent condemn hearts as black as yours. Francis... François. You will become what you imitate at this moment over the next eight years, unless you can learn what true love and beauty is. Unconditionally."

The light grew brighter, and, at that moment, a terrible and intense pain surged across the flesh that François had hidden beneath the mask. He clutched the mask, trying to rip it off, but found it immovable. When he removed his hands, he found blood smeared across them. Tears of pain and fear filling his eyes, he looked at the Enchantress again. He tried to beg in garbled English of a man desperately afraid, but she cut him to silence with her voice's tone.

"The mirror you rejected will become your only hope. Upon its handle is a chain and pendant. I believe you will find its use in your own time. Your timer is the rose that was not good enough for your shallow tastes."

She raised a glowing hand, in which she held the rose. Though now, it was made of gold and full of the same mystical, terrible beauty as the Enchantress.

"Eight years, Francis. Eight years until you--and all your servants--become those animals you imitated this evening."

"Non," He begged, falling to his knees, choking out the words past the thick blood that leaked from where the mask had sewn to skin, "Please, non!"

She said nothing more, only looked upon him with disdain before fading away. Where she had once stood, the rose and mirror lay.

It has since been just over seven years and four months, where our story truly begins.

* * *

Author's Notes:

_François Bonne-Fois:_ Basically, Francis Bonnefoy. Though his usual name is passable as a French name. François Bonne-Fois is a lot... Fancier, though. The first name means 'Frenchman', the surname means 'Good-Times'. So, his name can pun out to mean 'Good times with a Frenchman'. He's referred to as Francis by Anglophones by my own personal choice._  
« and »: _French Quotation Marks. I'm not skilled enough in French, yet, to write conversations, and I think this is an easy way to represent the language changes that will happen._  
la manche_: The English Channel. 'Language from across la manche' refers to English.

That should be all. Thank you so much for dealing with this so far, I really hope you enjoy it. If you're questioning the rating, later chapters will contain violence, a mention/scene of non-con, and thematic themes that are more appropriate of traditional fairy tales. You know, the ones Disney doesn't tell you.

I'm aware that this is basically a rip-off of Beauty and the Beast, but I'm going to define it, don't worry. Stick in! Updates soon!!


	2. Chapter 1

In a time, long passed, but not necessarily yet begun...

In a world familiar to us, yet one that we have never known, there was an old doctor who was curiously named Doctor Britannia Kirkland, a doctor who was thought, overall, mad by the world he lived in. Whilst the world was moving forward into heaven, hell, God, and thesis, Doctor Britannia Kirkland still held the stories mothers often tell their children closest to his heart. That world which the rest of humanity has since abandoned; the world of myth and fantasy.

He would tell you if you asked. He would tell you that he talked with faeries, he ran with unicorns, gambled with goblins, and drank with trolls.

However, the world was not at all keen to the good doctor's flights of fancy, and it shuffled the poor man from place to place, trying to find him a fitting home. He moved from town to town, living amongst the Britons he loved only as long as they would take them, before packing up and going to the next town.

If there was ever a proud man from the Isles, it was the Doctor. There were only two things that could stand up to his obsession with myths. Two things that he loved just as much. This first thing was his pride for the British Isles, his undying satisfaction in the soil that he was birthed on.

The second thing, or, rather, things, were his six sons, each born on a different part of the soils which he loved.

The oldest was Alban, Scottish, tall, and proud.

The next born was Rhyes, of Wales, gifted with crafty hands and worker's discipline.

After he was Arthur, English, who loved his father dearly and shared his same obsession and pride.

Next oldest was Erin, an Irish boy with the heart of an angel; he was a gift from the faeries.

Farren was born next, in Ulster, a charmer who was timid on the inside.

The very last was Peter, who was born on a ship in the sea, full of endless imagination and youth.

The Doctor loved them all with every part of his heart, down to the very bottom of it. Unfortunately, as growing children will be, not all of them loved him as much. In fact, most of them had broken Britannia's heart.

The trouble started not long after the Doctor finally resolved to move his family to France, for, surely, he would be more accepted there. However, it only took weeks for his golden life to go wrong.

Alban broke his father first, when he stormed out, drunk. He called out, "Loon! Madman! You're an embarrassment, and I don't need you!" Since that foggy night, Doctor Kirkland had not heard even a whisper of his firstborn son.

Erin, who loved and cared for his brother with every fiber of his being, left next to follow Alban. He apologized, and, truly, loved his father. Alban was simply more important to him, in the end.

But months later, Rhyes left a note to his father. It explained that he was off to Paris, to become a carpenter, and that he wouldn't ever be back home. There was work in Paris, and, if he made it big, he would send money back home.

Britannia was broken further when Farren eloped with a young girl to Picardy, leaving everything he owned behind. O, but the good Doctor hid his sorrows, if only for his remaining two boys. He wouldn't mourn when he still had two boys left to love.

Then, his worst of fears came true. Peter, but only twelve years old, ran away one night with the dreams of mermaids, pirates, and pixie dust. That is when Britannia truly broke. Even in the few years since, he was still known to get drunk and wonder aloud why he couldn't have gone to Neverland, too.

Only Arthur remained, only the most faithful and loving boy. The boy who adored his father, who believed every story he heard. No-one's slander could dissuade his respect for Doctor Britannia Kirkland. In fact, Arthur sometimes helped with the Doctor's studies and inventions. he organized his notes and stored the bags of leaves and acorns that the Doctor would bring back after camping in the dark woods of the town where they now lived.

Thankfully, the French were accepting. Not because they agreed, but it was relieving to have something so funny and mad living around. For four years, they had lived peacefully in this town. For four years, the Doctor occasionally disappeared into the forest for days at a time, and, for four years, Arthur Kirkland had taken care of his aging father.

Such was the case on a late autumn day, where the twenty-four year-old man was scrubbing at the wooden floor of their little house. It was always littered with leaves and twigs from the Doctor's bags, but Arthur didn't really mind, in the least. Cleaning the house was something to do when his father wasn't home, and the faeries had always told him that good boys who cleaned would be rewarded, while lazy boys would be punished.

He was no longer a little boy, but Arthur still held fast to this belief. Though he no longer played in the fields and watched the faeries no-one else could see, he would now drink, naked in the same fields with the very same creatures.

In fact, that had been the case of the night previous, which left his head a bit sensitive. Especially sensitive to loud noises, such as the one when his father threw open the door at that very moment. Consequently, Arthur jumped and slammed the back of his head on the underside of the cobweb-ridden dinner table. Wincing, he struggled out from under the table and watched his father approach through watering eyes.

Britannia was beaming, his many wrinkles deepened in the beaming smile he wore. With effort, he hoisted a sack full of twigs, berries, and leaves onto the table. As Arthur rubbed the bump out of the back of his head, the Doctor began to talk with great speed, rifling in his pocket for something.

"M'boy.. M'boy! You won't believe! I have to leave again in a mo', but..! You won't believe!"

Arthur glanced at his father in confusion. Leave? Again? But he'd just been gone for three days. He moved to the good Doctor's side, peering over his shoulder and picking leaves out of his father's scarf, "Leaving again..? You just got back."

He was a bit excited, though. If father was going to leave again so quick, it certainly meant something amazing, right? Britannia was aging, and his camping trips rarely went over four days. He only risked his health if he truly thought there was something worth finding.

"Yesyes. I'm so sorry for the short notice, but.. Arthur, look!" He withdrew a shining silver chain from his pocket, on which dangled a thin, flat, circular pendant. Much like a coin, but made of the cleanest, handsomest silver that Arthur had ever seen. On its front, there was a fleur des lis inscribed in gold. Before Arthur could get a good look, however, his father lay the fleur side down and out of sight on his palm, instead exposing the opposite side, "The writing on this side. See it..?"

He nodded, looking over the slanted, thin French letters. Arthur had not bothered to learn French beyond the needed phrases for the strictly-Francophones of the town, for he hated the language (and the people but that was its own matter) and had never bothered to put effort in learning it. The words were alien to him, consequentially, and he inquired to his father, "What does it mean..?"

A few of the curves caught the light enchantingly, and the Doctor answered, "Beauty is the last thing I will point to." His breath was shallow from his excitement.

Arthur's bright green eyes watched his father's misty ones for a moment, before Britannia made a quick movement, flipping the pendant to expose its other face, "Now, m'boy. This, look. This is the best part!"

The Englishman's eyes redirected to the side with the fleur, his family's trademark bushy brows furrowing at the notice that the thing was not tilted to point at the top of the pendant, but, rather, at an angle towards the right. Towards the forest.

"Watch closely.." The Doctor murmured, turning his hand slowly. With a gasp, Arthur watched in wonder as the coin tilted, but the orientation of the fleur remained stationary. No matter how it was turned, the point of the fleur's central petal stayed fixed on the forest like the point of a compass.

"It's charmed!" Arthur exclaimed in a breath, eyes meeting his aging father's again. His heart made a strange motion, seeing the youthful hope in the elder Kirkland's eyes, "What does it point to..?"

With a little laugh, Britannia closed his fingers around the pendant, "That," he paused impressively, eyes brightening like they hadn't since before Alban left, "is what I want to find out."

There was a silent understanding. Another son would have argued that Doctor Kirkland was too sick, but, if anyone knew, it was Arthur. He'd understood his father's need to disappear into the myths since he was a baby, and he still understood.

"Are you leaving tonight?"

"Yes, yes," He replied, pocketing the necklace and hitching the bag over his shoulder, "Immediately. The sun only has a few more hours left, I want to get a quick start! If I don't find anything in three days, I'll be back, all right?"

Arthur nodded with an earnest smile. The usual rules, a familiar scene. But, this time, Arthur felt that, maybe, his dear father was onto the dreams he had been chasing since before Arthur was born.

"All right," He replied with a nod and a smile, "I'll see you, then, father. Be careful."

Britannia laughed like he had when he was his son's age, rising a shaking hand and ruffling the boy's hair, "Thank you, Arthur. Take care, yes?" He made his way to the door, a spring in his limping step.

"Of course!" He replied, watching him leave. Beyond his love and excitement, Arthur couldn't repress a sinking, scary feeling. He brushed it off as nerves. This was like all the other times, and nothing would go wrong.

After all, how much trouble could a charmed pendant land someone in?

* * *

Author's Notes:

Well, we're getting somewhere, yes? Huge thanks to Middy for the help with Ireland and Wales' designs. Ireland'll come more into play later. And he might go through a re-christening, if she finds a name she likes more.

The brother aspect was added for my own want, but it will also come into play, later. If you'll forgive my use of Original Nations in this, I promise their role is thought-out and necessary. Can y'all guess what's gonna happen next? ;3


	3. Chapter 2

Arthur waited patiently for three days. He spent the time reading, cleaning, milling around the house, and making occasional trips into town for bread or butter, or to buy a new book. Not until the fourth evening did he begin to feel uneasy. However, he did not fret just then. He knew that his father had a habit of getting lost or distracted. He would surely be back, soon. After all, he might have found something, and might be busy exploring it. Or meeting it. Or something.

The fifth morning, he was worried, however, and began asking around the town. No-one had seen him, not the baker, the butcher, the retired soldier, the young man who was so kind to him… None of them had heard a whisper of Doctor Britannia Kirkland or where his journey had taken him. Arthur had trouble even coaxing himself into bed that night. He calmed himself with thoughts of going and checking the forest tomorrow, with the thought of wandering onto his father, sleeping under a tree. Yes, yes. That was a good image.

There was the Doctor, sleeping soundly and peacefully, snoring lightly. Arthur smiled and crouched beside him, touching his shoulder and gently shaking him awake. The father's eyes opened blearily, brightening with a smile. Arthur helped him stand, let go of his father's arms and the Doctor smiled. He brushed his clothes off and bent over to pick up his bag.

"Must have dozed off," he chuckled, "I hope I didn't worry you, Arthur!"

"You didn't too badly, don't worry," Arthur responded, turning to look for the path out of the forest, "Did you find anything, father…?" But there wasn't a response. Arthur turned, concerned, and felt himself choke on a scream that was silenced by the horror of the sight ahead of him.

The Doctor, hanging in the air, suspended by a long, black-cloaked arm snaked across his chest. The other one held onto his neck. The Doctor's head was bowed; something dark was spilling all down his front. Arthur finally shouted, but was too afraid to move forward. In response, the thing's other hand wrapped around Britannia's neck and tilted it upwards.

Arthur's eyes fixed on the creature's hands. They were like a man's, but the fingers were longer. The fingers had gossamer webbing between them, the veins were dark green. But then his eyes trailed up to his father's face. Where his eyes had been removed, where his face had been carved open. Where blood and vomit fell from his mouth, and he let out a rattling, horrible breath—

Arthur sat bolt upright in synchronization to the rooster's crow. His body was soaked with cold sweat; he felt tears from the nightmare running down his cheeks. It took the boy a long time to get out of bed but, the moment he did, he was packing to go. A quick breakfast, cloak on and bag packed. He ran down to a familiar house to ask an acquaintance to keep an eye on the house, and the young Englishman traveled his way into the dark woods. It was a chilly morning, as expected of this time of year. Even colder in the forest, which still held the shade of night in it. He found himself shivering quicker than anticipated, though he would not admit only half of it was from cold.

Arthur wandered for an hour, and then two more, following the path and hoping he was going the way the pendant had pointed. Though, he began to worry more and more the further he went. What if he himself was lost, now? Was this the right way? How would he know how to get back, where was his father? Eventually, the young Kirkland sat down and ate a small meal, eyes constantly darting around, as if expecting to find a sign each time.

One glance, he did finally see something. Quickly wrapping the bread back in cloth and placing it back in his bag, he stood and ran towards where he had seen green fabric, lying on the ground. He found it, a familiar green patch that usually found its home on the bottom of the Doctor's twig bag. The bag he carried his food, medicine, and offerings in.

Arthur's fist closed around the fabric, his eyes flicked around and found what he feared. A trail of pine needles, twigs, leaves, berries… Leading dead off the trail, into the darkness. He couldn't help but shiver and swallow hard. He knew just what the dark could do to you. He knew what angry or malignant faeries did to men, and what an irritated goblin would do to your corpse when he was done strangling it...

But his father was in there, and... With a huge effort, he swallowed his fears and began carefully creeping after the trail of lost tree-bits. Thankfully, the trail was thick, and easy to follow. Even better, there was no sign of struggle. Not a hint of blood or a fight. Meaning the bag must have burst and he hadn't noticed. Arthur needn't worry.

Not until he wandered across the whole of the bag, ripped to shreds amongst an area where all the moss had been kicked up. There was a cloak, all too familiar to him, a few feet ahead of that.

His stomach had dropped and filled with lead. His hands were shaking, his skin was sweating. Arthur couldn't breathe or think, he could only fling himself to grab up the cloak and clutch it, wild eyes looking for his father, desperate for the Doctor. No. Please, no. No no no.  
From the cloak he held, out fell a familiar silver object. Taking deep breaths, Arthur picked up the pendant with a shaking hand, examining where the point oriented towards. Slowly, impossibly, the Englishman felt himself calming down. Maybe, if he followed the point, he'd find his father. There was no blood, so the Doctor must surely be alive. He could breathe, at least for a moment. At the same time, however, he did not think he could survive unless he followed forward.

He understood his father's need to dream more than ever, as he made his way through the woods and towards wherever the point led him.

Arthur was not aware he was running, didn't even notice how much he was tripping. He had even left his rations behind. All the young man could think of were each of the days he had spent with his father, each and every adventure he'd experienced. Every last time his father had tucked him in as a boy, and each time he'd nursed the sick Doctor to health.

Thought only came back when something unexpected loomed out of the woods. Something that made Arthur finally stop and try to catch his breath whilst staring ahead. There, he saw dark turrets and slanting lines of tiles. Towers and buildings that spanned a huge area where the forest simply stopped.

Arthur's jaw had dropped; why had he never heard of this place before? What was it? He directed his gaze to the sweat-slicked pendant clutched in his palm, where the point focused dead-ahead, to the iron gates that were slightly ajar. Hope still dangling by a thin strand, Arthur forced his shaking legs forward, towards the gates.

He was able to slip through them without pushing them any further open. The Briton kept walking his careful, frightened way, only pausing when he heard a noise that resembled a cloak trailing over leaves. However, he assumed that he had imagined it.

The steps toward the tall, intricate wooden doors were a white stone that had been tarnished gray from ivy, age, and abandonment. In fact, he nearly slid on the autumn leaves that had fallen onto the steps. Something about the walls ahead, sprawled with vines and ivy, made him shiver. The gargoyles upon the edges of the rooftops above glared down at him with shining green jewel eyes. Arthur paused, staring up at them. Noting fleur de lis carved into each of their fronts, and how those eyes followed him and glimmered like they were living. He clutched his cloak tighter to his collar and pushed into the ornate doors, which opened with surprising ease.

The Doctor's son found himself in a huge, open entrance hall, with two spiraling staircases at the end of it. A towering ceiling, stained glass windows lining the highest parts of the walls and letting in only green and gold light, dimming with the evening. There were doors lining the hall to both the left and right, embossed with gold handles and that same, cryptic fleur.

He'd never been in a building so huge, so elegant and, in another situation, he would have been in awe. He assured himself that, when it was all done, he would take time to look around; the castle seemed abandoned, as it was. Wandering into the center of the room, Arthur's eyes traveled to the pendant.

He felt himself freeze up at what he saw. The fleur was spinning hopelessly in fast circles. Arthur felt himself beginning to shiver. He retraced his steps three steps backward, but the fleur only kept spinning. He must have gone the wrong way. Maybe he was supposed to go around the castle, maybe...

«Qui?»

He shook so hard he dropped the pendant. Arthur spun on the spot, hands clutching onto his own cloak in shock. He searched for the voice that had made the sound. His eyes found it: a man standing in front of one of the very same doors he had observed a moment ago. The man was about his own height, possibly taller. He had brown hair, longer than Arthur's own, and he wore clothes fancier than any Arthur had ever seen. Upon his cravat gleamed a pendant in that shape he had seen so much of as of late.

But the thing that caught the Englishman's eye was upon the man's face. A masquerade mask, covering the topmost half of his face. It had tilted, almond openings for the eyes, whiskers, and it seemed to go into the man's hair, for there were pointed ears of the same colour protruding where his ears would have normally been. Odder still, it seemed this man had taken his costume a step further, as a brown tail hung behind him, visible between his legs. If Arthur hadn't convinced himself better, he would have sworn this man was half-cat.

Finding his voice, Arthur stammered out, "Sorry! I'm s-so sorry! I got lost! I'm leaving, immediately!" He urged his legs to move, to allow him to turn away and run, "But.. have you seen an old man? Shorter than me... Bigger eyeb-brows. M-messy hair?"

«Marie!» The man called in response. It sounded like an order, but wasn't that a name? Did this man understand English?

"I'll go! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I'm leaving, see—Augh!" He screamed. Arthur had turned to bolt for the door, but a woman was standing directly behind him. Her clothes were similarly elegant, only with a red-white-gold theme, as opposed to the cat-man's brown-gold-white. Her hair was blond, rather short for a woman. Wavy, a ribbon in it. Her mask was more like that of a bird; it even had a long beak.

«Qui est-ce?» She asked. So they only spoke French? Arthur tried to duck around her as the cat-man responded in more of that damned language. He found the door shut, however, with a massive dark-skinned man in a floor-length cloak standing there. His mask covered the entire upper half of his head, and was like a ram. A pair of spectacles were perched on his nose.

Arthur feared he might pass out from fear, which was frightening, itself. He might not have ever been as strong-willed as Alban, but he was far from faint-hearted. But these strange people in strange masks, surrounding him and speaking a strange language... Everywhere he turned, another seemed to have appeared. A short, dark girl with long hair and the mask of a fish. A similarly short man with a badger's mask and long blond hair.

He was backing his way into the center of the room as more and more faces closed in around him, all murmuring and conversing in rapid, unending French. A lizard, a monkey, a tiger! God, make this a dream! He'd fallen to his knees, clutching his head and eyes staring at the pendant he had dropped, which was still spinning as quick as the people were whispering-no, talking-no, shouting! He couldn't scream, he was too afraid. Would they kill him? Were they going to eat them? They were demons! Demons in masks, and they were going to kill him and eat him-!!

There was a voice that broke past all others. It was cold and demanding, but obviously in charge. Arthur couldn't understand it, but it made every hair on his body stand on end. It barked out orders, and Arthur felt the circle retreating. In front of his eyes, the pendant stopped, and pointed somewhere behind him. As soon as he looked up to see who had saved him (and who the pendant pointed to), large, gloved hands grabbed him by the elbows and hauled him up. He stumbled, but was picked clean into the air, led to a door past the spiral staircases.

He was screaming, now. Demanding release, threatening the man who was holding him. However, the man must have been as impervious to English as the others, because he merely kept on, taking Arthur down cold, dark stairs and into what looked like a dungeon from a storybook. The next thing Arthur knew, he was being thrown bodily into a cell and the doors were clanging shut. He scrambled to all fours, grabbing at the bars and screaming with all his lungs at the man in the ram's mask who was retreating up the stairs Arthur had just traveled.

"Let me go! I meant no harm! Please, I need to find my father! Please!!" His hands clutched desperately at the bars; he was going to be sick, "Please..." He murmured, sagging onto the cold iron.

A quiet, fading voice replied to him. One he knew better than any other. "Arthur...?"

For the first time in hours, he felt a surge of calm as he turned. "Father…?"

* * *

Author's Notes:

Uggghhh I had to use actual French here, and I know the lines are probably wrong but I'm going to ask you not to correct me. I'll be referring to a friend of mine who is fluent for the help I need.

Ah, different flow, this time. I don't really like it, much, but this was a long freaking chapter, so I'm not about to go around and try to fix it. I'm gonna clarify a comment I got.. When I refer to negative stereotypes of the French ("he was everything French, both good and bad") I'm trying to represent a lot of the negative aspects of the French. But, as time passes, this will change. I know what I'm doing, guys. I'm actually a bit of a Francophile, to be honest. Thank you all for your positive reviews so far! It's giving me the will to continue on! Sorry for the longer-yet-more-badly-written chapter. I just couldn't make this one work. ;a; Expect an actual title character appearance soon!!


	4. Chapter 3

Arthur crawled to his father's side, trying to blink until his eyes focused to the dark. The only light in these dungeons came from two candles near the staircase, and those were very far away. His efforts did seem to pay off, though, as his father's wrinkled face came into sharper focus after a moment's wait.

"Father?" Arthur whispered, for his throat raw from the screaming.

He could see the Doctor smile weakly, his eyes trying to find the strength to light up. In the end, though, the light fell short and flickered back to a dull gloss, "Boy… Boy… You're here. How did you wind up in this situation, Arthur?" His voice wavered with weariness, even though he was merely whispering. Arthur could hear the gravel of a throat that had screamed as much as his own, and felt himself surge momentarily with anger. It was one thing to terrorize him, he was a young man who might have posed a threat, (or, at least, appeared to) but an elderly man with a limp and flyaway hair‽ They were demons; they had to be! He was a harmless old man, how could he have possibly posed any danger?

"I came to find you," Arthur explained, taking his father's hands in his own, nearly wincing at how cold they were, "You were gone for five days. I got so worried; I had to look for you. I found your bag, and your cloak, and--," His words fell short, and he felt angry with himself. He must have dropped the cloak, somewhere up the steps or in the hallway, "A-and the pendant… Or compass, or whatever it was."

"Oh… Yes, yes," Britannia mumbled, nodding slowly, "I must have dropped those… The badger-fellow attacked me, you see." Arthur couldn't help but note, in his worry, the wavering, shaky tone of his father's voice. He did not let it affect him deeply, though. Surely, with a blanket and food, everything would be well. There wasn't a scratch on his father, so, surely, he was at a point where he could be healed!

"All right. Are you hurt?" Arthur inquired, taking off his own cloak to wrap it around his shivering father. He wrapped his own arms around the man, trying to share as much body heat as he could. There was an eventual effect, where Britannia's shuddering subsided, and Arthur felt a calm settle over him, one that allowed him to think as Britannia replied.

"Oh, not badly. I think I bruised my legs, but I'm perfectly fine. I do wish they'd let me out of the cell, though…" He sighed a rattling breath, resting his head on his son's chest, "I would love to meet these people, no matter how rude they are. I want to know who they are."

Arthur only half-listened, pursing his lips in a frown at his father's words. Always too trusting. Always too optimistic. They were good traits, but this situation was the last Arthur would want them in. On the other hand, the optimism was keeping his father sane, wasn't it? He, himself, couldn't deny a curiosity in the masked demons. Who were they, why were they here, why did they wear masks that imitated animals? He made a noise through his nose in thought, which the Doctor took as a response and continued replying to.

He spoke for hours, Arthur eventually joining the conversation, occasionally speaking alone for extended periods of time so his father could rest with a smile. They exchanged theories on their captors, told the stories of their journeys, and wondered when they could leave. It must have been many hours that passed; Arthur had no way of telling. He only knew that they both drifted off into a frightened sleep when they had nothing else more to say.

In the shadows of the hallway between the cell rows, a figure shifted up from where they had crouched for those hours of conversation. He stretched and made his silent way up the stairs. At the top, he slipped on shoes on feet a bit oddly shaped for a normal man. The eerie silence of his feet was replaced by a light sound as he walked quickly across the hallway, onto the left-hand staircase. Onto the landing above, into a corridor guarded by two suits of armor; up a shorter stairway, down winding, dark hallways. He paused at an oil lamp, pulling a match from his sleeve and striking it to light the thing. The light caused the reflective part of his cat's mask to glimmer, caused sharp shadows over his stoic face. The shadows flickered with the flame, stretching oddly as he smiled lightly.

He turned, tail swishing behind him with obvious life, and opened a door that was hidden in the wall. From there, he went down a last hallway, and turned to the right to knock twice on a dark door.

«Yes? » Asked a voice beyond it.

«It's Jean-Luc, my lord. » The cat-man replied in a soft, kind voice that he hadn't used in the encounter with the intruder, earlier. The man within the room replied with a grunt that Jean-Luc knew to mean 'Enter'. He opened the door and slid into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He set the lamp down on a table, where its light cast off many objects; different clothing, spread over various services, broken portraits, jewelry, bottles of wine…

«So? » A man asked from the vast canopy bed. He reached a hand out past the sheer inner-curtaining of the four-poster. The outer layer of fabric that hid him was pulled open slightly, as if he had been expecting Jean-Luc.

Said Frenchman moved to the bedside, kneeling beside it and taking the ringed, long-fingered hand and kissing it on its palm. The fingers (connected from the knuckle to the next joint up in thin, transparent skin with the lightest green tint) of the hand caressed Jean-Luc's face; he purred in response, tail flicking. Jean-Luc nuzzled into the hand, kissing it another time, and then another before his eyes darted up to the curtains, to the blurred figure beyond the naked arm.

«They're certainly British. The new one's the old man's son. His name's Arthur… He thinks we're demons, » He paused for the other one to snort, «He's concerned about his father, I think he's aware of the man's health. »

The hand shifted to scratch behind Jean-Luc's pointed, fuzzy ears, coaxing out another purr, «Ohh, my Picardy. I'm so proud. Always so smart and quick~ My favorite.. » He sighed a long breath, hand keeping entwined in the other's hair.

A silence followed as Jean-Luc ceased his purring and eyed the other's silhouette. Choosing words wisely, he muttered in his most respectful tone, «My beautiful lord, if I might suggest… This is an opportunity, after all. And an excellent one, at that! It is at least worth a try. »

The position of the hand changed, the touch was far colder. Any other servant would have flinched and apologized, but Jean-Luc was a completely different case. His lord replied quietly, voice almost a whine, «But he's ugly. And English. You know how I feel about that, Picardy. » He shifted closer to the sheer fabric, his other hand appearing and stroking down the servant's neck with a prominently sensual caress.

Appreciatively, Picardy arced and pressed into the touches, but he held himself back, taunting the other's desire to touch with prudishness, «But is it not worth a shot? I'm sure he'd do anything to save his father. What if we offered his father freedom in exchange for his assurance to stay? » He ducked away from a touch towards his cravat, repressing a smile as his master let out a frustrated huff.

«Stop moving, Picardy. I want to touch! » He fussed, grabbing at the other like a child denied a toy.

«Not until you listen, my lord~ » Jean-Luc chided kindly. The hands flopped in defeat and the other man let out a rattling sigh.

«I'll keep the ugly boy and try, all right? I swear to it. Now, come in here. I've had a long day and need you. » His hands retreated into the bed and out of direct sight. Jean-Luc grinned wide, loosening his cravat and climbed into the bed like the cat he represented. He could feel his heart pressing uncomfortably in hope he hadn't felt in a very long time.

* * * * * * * *

Arthur awoke unhappily to the loud sound of someone hitting the bars with something. He grumbled, shifting up and feeling his father do the same. This morning, the whole dungeon was lined with lit candle-torches, and it was significantly warmer.

It took him a moment to realize the blond woman with a bird's mask was standing at their cell's bars with a silver tray laden with food. Judging by his father's surprised gasp, this was a new development. She set it on the ground just outside the bars, pushing it against them so they could reach it. Almost immediately, Britannia was upon the bars, grabbing up the food and eating like he'd never done it before. Arthur, however, stayed where he was, watching the woman through narrowed, untrusting eyes.

She rolled her eyes and tilted her head lightly, and, all so suddenly, spoke in perfect, albeit accented, English, "Prince Bonne-Fois has a proposition for you, Arthur."

Arthur heard his father pause eating, curious and a bit shocked. He, himself, felt his hairs stand up and a shiver attempt to run through his body. Glancing at his father, he murmured, "What kind of proposition?"

She frowned and replied curtly, "Your father's freedom. In exchange, you will stay here."

Britannia drew away from the bars as if they were made of fire, withdrawing himself to his son's side, again with wide eyes examining the woman. Arthur's eyes immediately fell to his father. His sick father. His dying father who needed help and medicine and a warm bed.

They had met eyes; Arthur could see his father was shaking more than the shivers of before. He knew his father didn't want to leave Arthur behind, that he would rather die than leave his son to a fate he knew that he was not ready for. A fate that he was more suited for, but too sickly to have. Arthur clutched his father's hand, staring at him and trying to apologize a million times with just a look, before muttering in a low, quiet voice.

"Can you give me a few moments with him?" Britannia's eyes widened, Arthur could feel the fear, the despair. Because Britannia was about to lose his last son. His closest, most beloved son.

"I'll take that as a yes? You're granted a few moments. I will return shortly." She spun on her heel, disappearing up the stairs without a second word.

Arthur's arms threw around his father, pulling him impossibly close. The Doctor's knotted, wrinkled hands latched tight onto Arthur's back. The both of them were silent for a long moment, Arthur was not sure if his father was lost for words or simply had nothing to say, but he knew that he, himself, couldn't even stammer the words out.

_I'm sorry._ He wasn't entirely sure why he couldn't choke the words out. He could only shake and know what pain he was causing.

_You never wanted to lose me. I'm all you have left. But it's for you; I'm doing this so you won't die._ He was breathing shakily; so was Britannia. He was sure the Doctor was crying. There hadn't ever been a son he hadn't cried for, but this was the first time Arthur had seen it happen, rather than hear it through a door. Through all the years, he knew that the Doctor had always known that Arthur would never leave.

_I never wanted to make you cry, I love you, dad. Please, it's for you. I don't want you to die. I'll come home eventually. They can't keep me forever._

They were both shaking. Arthur's eyes were tight shut and burning with the want to cry. He'd be stuck as a captive for a while… At the worst, for a few months until someone saved him. Surely, Britannia could tell someone and they would come to the rescue. He wanted to say it, he wanted so bad. _Tell them what happened. You can get someone to save me. I won't be gone forever._

Britannia sobbed, and his son's heart broke in two. Choking on his guilt, he tried, so very hard, to say something-anything.

_I love you, I'm so sorry, you mean so much to me, I'm saving you, I'll be home soon, I feel so guilty, I hate it, let it out, please forgive me, I love you, Father, Dad, it's for you._

"I'm sorry," Arthur choked out, feeling wet on his face, hearing his father's rattling breaths.

Britannia took a long, mournful moment to respond, but eventually croaked out, "Don't be. Please don't be, Arthur."

There was a sound of an opening door, and Arthur felt panic surge through him, "I'll be home in n-no time. I'll be back, all right?" He glanced over his father's shaking shoulder and wished he hadn't; there stood the masks of the beaver and the ram, as well as the bird-woman. The cell bars were opening.

"Arthur, I don't want them to hurt you, I don't want you to get hurt. Please, Arthur, I'll be fine!" Britannia begged, having gripped with all his might when he heard the bars sliding open.

"I'll b-be home! I'll be home, and you won't have to worry! I want you to get better. Get better for me, so I can come h-home and see you, okay?" Arthur's hands were being pried off of his father. He stared in pure despair at his father, his beloved, great father whose heart he was shattering for its sixth time.

"Arthur, they'll hurt you! I'll stay, please, I'd rather st-stay!" The badger was pulling Britannia to his feet. Arthur stood, grabbing at his father, desperate to embrace him, again. He didn't care that he was well into his twenties, he felt as if he were a child going through this. As if this were one of his worst nightmares from those more innocent days.

"I'll be home!" Arthur assured, trying to keep his words together. The bird-woman was grasping his arm, he could only touch his father's arm as he was dragged away, "I'll be home, I love you! I'm sorry! Father, I love you!" He didn't realize the devastation of his nearly-screamed words. His hand clutched his father's for a second, their eyes locked.

"I love you, too. I-I'll be waiting! Just, please--! Arthur!" Arthur knew he would have kept begging, but with the disaster came the need for closure.

Their hands were pulled apart and Arthur let out a sound like a wounded creature, trying to run after the Doctor but stopped by the woman's surprising strength.

"Goodbye!!" He heard himself shout as he fell to his knees, eyes streaming, chest heaving.

His heart stopped and waited, finally beating again when it heard the reply before the door opened and then shut, "Goodbye…"

* * *

Author's Notes:

Sorry this one took a bit longer. My stepmother passed away on Saturday and I lost my muse for a short period of time. I tried to make this chapter longer to make up for it.

Ah, let me get a few explanations out of the way. Mainly Jean-Luc.

Firstly, I implore you to forgive me for my own puns, because they are TERRIBLE and no person should have to deal with them. But, as I doubt anyone has guessed, he represents the minor character in hetalia of Picardy. He's from the April Fools: Aftermath dating sim, a photographer hired by France to do some picture-taking. I always liked him a lot, and he's the most directly-associated Francophone to France, so he gets the place as #1 servant. He's representing a key role from the original fairy tale, so keep an eye on him. If you haven't really noticed, he and François have something of an... Interesting relationship. But, again, this relates back to the role that Jean-Luc is supposed to play.

France calls him 'Picardy' as a pet-name, because that's where Jean-Luc was born. It's in no-way his name, I just thought Jean-Luc 'Picardy' was a really funny aside to... Well, let's see if you guys get the joke. x)

I'm also really sorry I promised you a France appearance and he only got a speaking part. Next chapter should have him fully appear, kay?

I'm also regretting that I didn't have enough time to build the character relationships between Arthur and Britannia, but I guess I can try to make their relationship a lot more real through Arthur's memories in upcoming chapters.

The woman in the bird-mask is Belgium. I'll get to the ram and badger later; they both explain their origins.

And I really hope no-one gets off-put by how France and Picardy act towards each-other. xD;; This is still gonna be a FrUK fic, I swear! I'll explain everything in time.

Thank you for holding out! I hope I'm not going too slow for ya!


	5. Chapter 4

Arthur knelt there, shaking, arms in a grip by the bird-woman. His chest was heaving, his body shaking; he had never, not once, felt this much despair. The woman waited a moment before, once again, speaking to him in perfect English. In a small corner of his mind, he found himself angered that she had hidden this ability from them until moments ago.

"The Prince has issued you a room, upstairs. You can go to it now, or we can force you." her eyes drifted sternly over him, watching him slowly stand. She released his arm, taking his movements as surrender, and made her way to the staircase. However, he did not follow her. Instead, he stumbled into the cell once more and collapsing in the furthest corner. She turned, locking eyes with his streaming, reddened ones. She was fully aware of her orders, but she was also aware that some things wouldn't budge. With a sigh and the slightest shake of her blond head, the bird-woman retreated up the stairs and out of sight.

Arthur pressed himself to the corner, eyes unearthly wide. Unblinking, staring at a wall and trying with all his might not to shut them. Blinking would seal that this was all reality. A terrible, horrible reality where he might not see his father ever again. Where he might die alone, lost in a world of men in masks.

His body failed him, then, and he blinked. He let out a ragged, weeping breath, and his head collapsed onto his own bent knees. What would he do? What was he supposed to do?

The cell door was still open.. Perhaps he could simply make a break for it? Run after his father and into freedom? No, no. They'd kill him. He knew that they would, and he simply couldn't do that to his father. Should he ask to leave? Beg and explain how deeply he needed to leave, hope they let him go..? No, no. They would never, and it would ruin his dignity. Without that, what would he have left?

So he was left to ponder what options he had left. Why did they even wish to keep him? He was at a complete loss, mind left to merely decide that he must have some use to them that he was not yet aware of. An idea filtered into his mind, an idea that would surely work. He would not move from here. He would refuse meals, water, and care. He'd let himself begin to die and deteriorate so greatly that they would have to let him go home. After all, what use would he be dead?

Arthur stuck to this plan for three long, terrible days. Days where different masks would come down and check on him, attempt to talk him into going to the room their mysterious master had set aside for him. He would never respond, never even look at them. In fact, he feared he would lose his voice. Arthur also feared he would go insane, staying alone and silent like he was. His days were full of hunger and thirst, his nights equally full of desperate dreams that were beginning to fade. Maybe they would let him die.

If anything, he hoped he'd die in his dreams, no matter how insane they were trying to become. In the end, they were still dreams of caring for the Doctor, being home. Sometimes, his brothers had returned. Occasionally, they were living back in the Isles. But most dreams ended in masks and cloaks and hands strangling him, shaking him.

Shaking him hard, grabbing his shoulder? His eyes flickered open, blinking the haze away and finding the bird-woman looking straight at him, crouched just in front of him. He would have jumped, if he possessed the strength.

Their eyes stayed connected for a moment, until he glanced towards the side of her, where she had set down the usual tray of food. In the process of turning his gaze back to her, he spotted something that, for some reason he could not place or explained, frightened him as greatly as the first night he had come here. Her shoulders, partially exposed by the cut of her blouse, had a thin, translucent cover of wispy.. Feathers? Clear, fragile ones, but.. Feathers!?

His eyes trailed up to her face, and his fear must have been apparent, for she actually gave him a small smile.

"You shouldn't be starving yourself, Arthur," She picked up a crystal goblet full to the brim with water and held it in front of him, "I doubt you really want to die. Here, drink."

He shook his head weakly, eyes fixed on her eyes, trying to read the thoughts just behind them. This was the first event even nearly representing kindness that he had received in his dreadful stay, but he could not bring himself to trust it. They were merely trying to get him to give in to their wishes.

He wouldn't allow it, he'd push her away if his arms weren't so weak!

She wasn't weak, though, and she could press the goblet to his lips and know that, in desperation, he would drink. The water was like new life in his dried, raspy throat; he drank until he was trying to swallow air. The bird-woman smiled lightly, saying quietly, "My name is Marie. I am a servant of lord Bonne-Fois. He is very displeased with your behavior, and insists that we leave you be."

Panting past the water that still dribbled down his chin from where the goblet had spilled, Arthur quietly asked, "Then why are you bothering me?" Her behavior was strange, the change in her voice was jarring, but he would not deny how welcome it was. He wouldn't, under any circumstance, trust her, though. She must, surely, be up to absolutely no good.

"Because my Prince does not realize that you are as stubborn as he is," She stated, placing the goblet back on the tray, "And that his own stubbornness could kill you. Then where would we be?"

Arthur was confused by her closing statement, but scooted himself closer to the wall, now able to hold a slightly better posture, "That's nice. Now, Marie, if you would leave me alone, I would deeply and greatly appreciate it. I'm a bit busy, an--"

She cut across him bluntly, "Your father is safe and healing at his home. We've been watching him."

Like a punch to the gut, the words were knocked from his mind. Father.. Healthy and safe? Was she lying to him? If so, for what reason? Well, that was obvious. To trick him. He scowled, and she read his expression. With a sigh, she reached into her cincher and withdrew a silver handmirror from it. She turned its reflective face to Arthur, muttering a phrase in French.

It flashed, and his eyes widened as he watched it with widened eyes. The mirror showed him the inside of his home, where Britannia was puttering about, wrapped in a blanket, looking for something. As he tried to grab the mirror, she took it away and pocketed it again.

"No.." He almost begged, the breath gone from his voice. Another glimpse. He'd kill for another glimpse.

"You'll see more of him in the future, I'm sure. He's well enough, I thought knowing that would make you eat, at least," She stood, brushing off her skirt, "I have duties upstairs, if you don't mind." Marie turned on her heel, as to leave.

Arthur forced himself to stand. Oh, he was sure he had gone mad from the hunger, thirst, and nightmarish sleep, but that image of his father spurred him. Her words that hinted seeing him again, words that would surely happen sooner with good behavior. He directed his feet to follow after her, the things scraping the ground as he went and directing her attention.

"What are you doing?" She inquired, perking a brow, causing the mask to move slightly.

He didn't respond, merely stopped just behind her. He was already swallowing the pride that still resented this, he wasn't about to give in more and admit it. Understanding, she grinned and led him up the stairs, into the entrance hall and immediately up one of the spiral staircases. He struggled to keep her pace, following her down dark hallways, lined in paintings and mirrors, suits of armor and fleur des lis. Some amount of travel, later, he was led to a doorway, which was opened to reveal a spacious room, elegant and high-class. The bed had four-posts and a canopy, there were foreign rugs dashed upon the ground. Two wardrobes, many tables. A bookshelf. A door on the other side of the room, slightly ajar to reveal the bathing room it contained within its threshold. There were tall, beautiful windows against the farthest wall, and a meal already set on one of the tables. It would have been a dream to another man, but, damn it, Arthur hated the fleurs that peppered the room. This 'Prince' had some seriously disturbing issues with the symbol.

"This is where you will stay. The Lord requests that you do not wander far from it, for your own health." She did not wait for a response, this time, and merely escaped the room silently, shutting the door behind her.

As he ate and stripped down to merely his trousers, he pondered her words. Do not wander? For his own health? What did that mean? Would they hurt him, or was there something.. Terrible? He snorted into his food (which was far better than any food he, himself, had ever cooked, but he'd never admit that. After all, French cuisine was far inferior to the... delights of the British Isles... Ahem.) with the thought that wondered _What does their prince look like?_ Oh, all the most terrible and humorous of images came to mind. In the end, Arthur decided the funniest and far most likely was a snail. Because he was a bloody frog, and frogs liked snails, right?

He bathed not long after, but only after scoffing in distaste when he found the room to also be covered in-wouldn't you have guessed it-fleur des lis. Arthur spent good time bathing; the water was warm and nice. Having left his clothing behind, in the room, he stepped from the bath with a drying towel wrapped around his waist.

It was nearly dropped in his scream of finding another person waiting on him in the room. The cat-man, sitting on top of one of the tables and examining his rather pointed fingernails. The masked one of the duo glanced at Arthur, smiling coyly and standing. Arthur found himself backing slowly into the bathing room, cheeks and shoulders blotching red.

"W-why are you in here--!?" He stuttered, then remembering this one had not appeared to know English.

As Arthur backed into a wall, Jean-Luc smiled wider and sauntered up to the other, a hand reaching for towel, "Monsieur, the Prince has sent me~ I'm to dress you."

If that wasn't the most absurd thing Arthur had heard in his life, he'd be the Queen, herself. And why did this one suddenly know English, too!?

"What? No, I don't need you to dress me! I've been able to dress myself for twenty-two years, now! I don't need a... A cat to teach me how to put clothes on!"

"Chat," The Frenchman corrected him, grasping the towel and removing it with rather surprising strength. Arthur made an undignified noise of protest, but was dragged to the front of one of the wardrobes. While he stood there, covering his privates, Jean-Luc continued, "I am Jean-Luc, servant and adviser to our Prince, François Bonne-Fois," Now Arthur had a full name, at least. Jean-Luc opened the wardrobe, which was full of clothing, and began shuffling for something he thought would suit the Briton, "We have... Long awaited a guest, such as yourself. This is your room, you aren't to leave it unless instructed otherwise. You will be expected to dine with our Lord this evening. I will escort you. You will wear these clothes, and you will eat the food. He is to be addressed as Prince, and only that.

"He will also expect the utmost courtesy from you. You are to be polite, all right? He will have trouble pronouncing your name, and you are not to get angry over this..." He continued, on and on, but Arthur had stopped listening. Grace his captor? Never, he had already moved upstairs, did they expect him to play nice? He nodded politely when it seemed appropriate, allowing himself to be dressed down in softer clothes than he had ever touched. Jean-Luc stepped away to admire his work, smiling and giving Arthur a little bow before retreating the room and calling, "I will see you in a few hours time, Arthur!"

A few hours time. Wasn't that laughable? He spent some time standing in front of the mirror, looking at the far too gaudy clothing, letting his brain mull his situation. He wasn't as openly, inescapably depressed and lost, as he had been. Spite and something else were keeping him from slipping into that darkness.

He was upset, still, but he was also warm, clean, and fed. He was going to stay here until they rid of him, let him free, and he was going to demand they let him write his father. Surely.

They couldn't expect him to cooperate to the level they had suggested, anyway. It was utterly unreasonable, and even the French bastards were likely to realize that. Lousy, weak white-flag-wavers that they were. He could probably shake his fist and they'd being his father to him!

He laughed with this thought, feeling his heart lighten with it. He spent time that he lost track of, wasting it with exploration of the room, a nap, an angry bout and more spite. He was not even aware of the time that had passed until there was a quiet knocking at his door.

Startled, he inquired the identity of the visitor, hearing Jean-Luc respond that it was he.

Dinner. He had forgotten.

With almost a sneer, he threw himself down on the bed, feeling a giddy rush of power. Dinner? Honestly, he'd never allow, he'd never let them. And what could they do about it? They'd have to feed him, eventually. In no way would he even consider tending to these masked frogs.

"Monsieur, if you will please come out..." The Frenchman called from the other side of the door. Arthur found himself smirking wide, back pressed against the door. Jean-Luc attempted to push it open for a moment before cursing quietly in French and pulling back. In a low tone, he hissed against the door, "My lord will be very displeased. You should show yourself if you don't wish to irritate him further."

Arthur didn't respond, he merely pressed harder until he heard the other man walk away.

He'd always been incredibly stubborn, possibly one of his worst traits, but, in this situation it was surely the best defense.

Or so he was deluded for the next 48 hours, until he began to starve again. They had not once even gone to check on him since his refusal of dinner two nights previous. By this point, however, his hunger was hitting a low he had only felt in his cell, that feeling slowly turning the gaudy, lavish room into a completely different type of hell. Somehow, it was more irritating to lie about on a soft bed with a bathroom that ran magically warm water than to be curled in the dark and hard cold. He felt it to be a more delicate and terrible torture.

At night, he did not hear quite as many people walking, however, and he finally decided that would be a good time to attempt to run and sneak food. In fact, he had devised the best plan for it. A change in clothes, so they couldn't smell him over their own overly-perfumed clothes. No shoes, as to avoid being heard. A good shower beforehand to keep him awake and on his toes.

So he snuck down the hallway, down the staircases and into corridors. Assuming from smells that he was hopefully on the right route. However, he had never been able to explore previous to this, so he felt a certain discomfort working off of guesswork alone. Ever now and then the matter got even worse, as he would jump at creaks and scuffling noises.

Finally he felt close, but the hall was lined with several doors, leaving Arthur turning silent circles as he tried to figure his best option.

When the farthest door, the one he faced directly on that fateful moment, opened grandly.

He felt himself recoil.

The creature was taller than he, but not by a substantial amount. Just enough to be notable.

Notable enough to cause a shuddered gasp.

His hair was golden, yet a cold shade of the otherwise warm tone.

Cold enough to make his brow sweat.

His clothing was intricate. Deepest green satins and silks, pinned with gold and strung with pearls. A cape fluttered behind him, attached to a single shoulder. The fleur that pinned it caused him more fear than that symbol ever had.

Enough fear to make his head pound.

Every inch of him was in the finest, down to the back of his draft-fluttering hair, which was tied with an emerald ribbon. But his mask.

The mask that made him want to scream.

It covered his eyes, his nose, and the greater parts of his cheeks. The forehead only had a sliver at the topmost, the lips were exposed with his chin.

Oh, heavens his eyes gleamed like a wolf or other such horrifying predator. Arthur felt intimidation in those eyes that the devilish servants could not even cause. If those eyes hadn't fearfully enchanted him as they had, he would have been more terrified at the long-fingered and webbed hands, with rings forever caught by said webbing.

However, Arthur's mind was far too busy trying to collect a scream, hide it at the same time, freeze his body, and tell it to run.

That was the strongest impulse. To _run_. Especially when the door shut loudly, the terrible green man's eyes narrowing as he stood on the spot and stared and oh Jesus and Mary and every part of the good Bible's saviors and saints. _He couldn't move but he knew that he must run._

"What ahre you doing 'ere?"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

It's been a WHILE, hasn't it..? I don't have an excuse.. I lost the muse for a bit, but I'm back, baby~! I don't have much to say on this chapter. But here's your stupid prince~~ Ask me any questions you have! Working on next chapter soon.

I actually set up a blog for progress and updates on this story. tales-of-the-froggy .blogspot. com/ I should be able to post updates about haituses there, as well as my original concept arts. c: Please stay tuned in. I'm so thankful for all of you! ~Dei


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